One Final Look
by The Nightingale's Song
Summary: On her deathbed, Christine looks back on her life and her final days with Erik. Kay based, one shot.


**One Final Look**

As I lay in the bed my husband and I have shared for sixteen years now, the final moments of my life are slowly escaping from my weakened grasp. Hands which once held and loved with such fierce dedication, now rest limply at my sides, slightly more wrinkled than before, but not entirely beyond recognition. These hands were once held by another pair, a pair skeletal yet strong, chilled, yet inexplicably warm; these now frail fingers were once entwined with those of another, long and thin…but that was many years ago.

I do not know how much time I've left. It could be hours, days, or only minutes. As I lay the temptation to slip into a forbidden yet beautiful reverie of years gone-by grows stronger and stronger, and I cannot help but think back to the days when I was not a fragile, sick woman, aged beyond her years by the wise yet questionable hand of fate, but a young, beautiful ingenue, with an angelic voice crafted by the prince of all fantasy and illusion…

I was but a young girl when I came to the opera house, not in age — I was eighteen when Mama Valerius first brought me there — but in my fragile, innocent spirit. After Father had died, I had made it my eternal goal to retain the innocence which had been the foundation of my existence when he'd been with me. Silly as it may seem, I vowed to remain the way I was, to cling to his warm, precious memory for as long as I was to live. Even with the risqué atmosphere of the theater which knew no boundaries surrounding me nearly every day, I retained purity and, subsequently, ignorance in every way possible.

The opera house harbored such an environment that if you roamed the corridors after hours, around any corner you may suddenly confront a secret, rushed coupling; or during the afternoon between the final rehearsal and the performance, you might enter a room to find two drunken men brawling, but even in such an environment, I held fast to the innocence within my heart, and prayed for my father's soul each day. Then I believed purity was the most valuable intrinsic gift which we are granted from birth, a gift which cannot be restored once parted with, and one which should be guarded with the utmost security.

The older girls mocked me at times if I'd ask a question which betrayed my ignorance, but this was only before the Angel of Music made me his humble diva. After this dramatic change in status, I heard no more rude remarks spoken about me, or at least, not directly. The criticisms were now condensed to whispers, guarded by delicately cupped hands which shielded the murmur from earshot save that of the intended recipient.

In retrospect, I suppose that I was quite the conversation piece, especially when I began to disappear for days at a time, to a secret place which was mine and his alone, only to turn up later, visibly drained. No one can act strangely without being gossiped about, and I can plainly see how my behavior would be judged as strange in the eyes of others. Even in my own eyes I acted strangely. I dare-say there were underlying rumors of my barely contained madness. If I'd got wind of one at the time, I very well may have believed it myself.

More often than a young person should, I felt as if I were a prisoner of my own mind, my own thoughts, all of this unquestionably being initiated by him, the Angel of Music. In such times of doubt and despair, I would refer to my angel simply as 'he' or 'him,' for fear that if I called him by name or title, it would only bring me one step closer to succumbing to the madness which everyone seemed so sure lurked somewhere deep within me, just waiting to be triggered. For all the agitation, pain, and anguish he caused me, one may think that I disliked him, hated him even, but I could not, cannot, for I know that for every single tear he caused me to shed, I caused him to shed two.

Although I suppose it is possible to hate those whom you respect, it was not for me. Never did my respect for his pure genius, if for nothing else, ebb; the closest I ever came to dislike was fear, which I felt, admittedly, often. In all truth, he was the most frightening, powerful, brooding man I'd ever met. Although I knew he would never do me any serious harm, I'd seen violent displays of his temper numerous times, and although he thought I could not tell, I'm sure, I could sense moments when his ill-restrained rage was nearly released, though as to why precisely he was feeling such rage, I was not always sure, in my naïve, one-dimensional ways. Of course, he was always critical, and though hardly ever rude, blunt, I came to accept these traits as part of his impeccably unique personality, and learned to distinguish a sharp comment from true anger.

Erik had a temper of such magnitude that I never knew existed, especially with my mild sampling of men: my father was a gentle, kind-hearted man; if ever I disobeyed, he did not raise his voice, but instead expressed to me his disappointment in my actions. This alternative made such a profound impression on me that I hardly ever did anything to draw this reaction forward.

And of course, there is my husband. Raoul rarely is angered, but should he be on some occasion, he can do an excellent job of carrying on. However, afterward, he almost always apologizes to me, sometimes with a bouquet of flowers, a box of fine chocolates, or tickets to a certain show I'd been wanting to see. Therein lies one of the largest differences I've come to think of between my husband and Erik: an apology scarcely ever passed his malformed lips. His immense pride would not allow him such sentiments, even after that fateful night at the opera, where the future of myself, Erik, Raoul, and the Persian man was suddenly in jeopardy. Such a night…

The only other being whom I know to have a temper even coming close to that of Erik's is Charles. It makes logical sense, of course, but even so, while Erik's temper was triggered often, Charles tends to be much more patient, but when he is angered, especially when he was younger, his tantrums can almost compete with those of his father. I think of Charles and ways that he is like his father often. My son is very much like Erik, with his music, his intelligence, his unhurried elegance and grace, but I must mention that Charles is much softer, much less intense, much milder.

I sometimes wonder if he didn't gain this alteration from Raoul, not as an inherited trait, of course, but through the age-old process of observing and learning, which is common particularly to children who have not yet been molded, their personalities not quite yet formed. In his sweet ignorance, Charles regards Raoul entirely as his father; never have I sensed any doubt from him on the matter. At times I wonder if this wouldn't anger Erik, but no, I doubt it would; Erik would want his son to have a father, as he, Erik, had not.

The night of Charles's conception was the most sacred in my lifetime, so much so that I hardly allow myself to think of it; I forced myself to save it for when I should really need a bit of beauty in my life. That night was the first, and one of the only nights I ever joined physically with a man — after Charles's birth, the doctor made it clear that I could bear no other children. I have no doubt that my husband took this news with great sorrow, and great bitterness, I'm sure, but deep within my heart, I know I would have it no other way. But more important than the physical union was the marriage of our hearts and souls. That night, before Nadir and God, I called myself his wife, and he my husband, and told him that forever I would be his.

Tears streaming down both of our cheeks, Erik asked quietly if Nadir could please leave us. I could not tear my gaze away from Erik, but I heard the Persian leave the room, closing the door behind him, and somehow, I knew he too wept. The candlelight cast strange shadows upon the walls and upon our bodies, and as Erik asked if I would take his hand in mine, I realized with a jolt how different the man lying in the bed before me was than the on I'd become accustomed to. This man before me was frail, thin, and weary, though still possessed an aura of strength and command about him, even in spite of the obvious lack of visible power. It amazed me that even in this bedridden condition, I felt compelled to obey him without a second thought.

I took his hand, and into mine he pressed a folded sheet of parchment. Read it later, he'd told me, when I have gone. The very mention of such a notion brought tears rushing to my eyes, and try as I might have to stop them, they continued on their course, rolling down my cheeks. Slowly he reached his hand up and wiped them away, in a tentative motion; even after all we'd shared, he restrained our contact as if I were some sort of holy goddess unfit for his touch.

I closed my eyes as he continued to brush away tears, and whispered quietly to me comforting things, just as he had before as my angel. The gentle caress of his skeletal fingers upon my cheeks made more tears fall, not tears born of sorrow, however, but tears born of love.

I loved him, yes, and I still do. We, perhaps, are the most unlikely pair, and any circumstances which would have been more difficult to love under have yet to reach my mind. Erik could terrify me, could make me sob into my pillow as I longed for the predictable comfort of my father or Raoul, for my childhood. In reality, we might have been the two people on Earth who were never, ever intended to fall in love, like the white rose and the nightingale…

Perhaps in reality, in sensibility, I should have never loved him, never looked past my fear and his face to see the truth. But reality did not matter; Erik showed me the beauty of fantasy, an escape from what is real and cold, a holiday in a world where all is good and lovely. He loved me completely, and in the end, unselfishly, and I realized that I loved him completely, though perhaps too late; and in this perfect world of our own making, our love for each other was the only thing that mattered.

It made no difference to us that Erik lived below the ground, a pariah to the Parisian society, and all other societies, as well; we did not care that Erik was thirty years older than I, and nearing the end of his lifetime — no. We were a young, recently married couple: full of life, love, and potential, without a care in the world, we left the worrying to later, we focused only on each other, ever since my lips first had met his. That kiss had changed everything. It had brought an end to the lies, the deception, the pain, the complication, for in that moment, that precious moment, without either of us speaking a word, we each knew that the other loved us, and that we loved the other.

Words were dreadfully insufficient after our kiss, not nearly expressing enough, though that did not stop Erik from speaking them in great, long soliloquies. My love adored words; I often think that second to hearing his music, he loved most of all hearing his own voice. But of course, who could blame him? In all my recollection, Erik never once told me that he loved me — I did not need to be told, nor did he. We _knew_. We knew through our touches, our tones, our gazes; I knew from the way he held me so tenderly, he knew from the way I caressed his misshapen, waxen cheek.

Making contact with me in any way so moved Erik that it brought tears to his eyes, and often mine too, for I could only think of the life he must have endured for a simple touch or kiss to mean so much to him. I thanked God that I was able to give him the gift of love before he departed. However, with his being so unused to being touched in any way that was not intended to harm, it sometimes amazes me that Charles was ever conceived!

Our coupling was slow, tender, and completely indulgent and unhurried, partially due to his fragile condition, and partially due our mutual desire to savor the moment, for it could never be revisited. That night, I explored the body of a man who was so mistreated throughout his lifetime, and yet, in the end, so loved by me, and he in turn explored mine. I could tell by his expressions and reactions that he had never before been with a woman; this satisfied a certain part of my heart that was growing more and more possessive over him as I grew in awareness of my love for him.

Although tired, that night Erik demonstrated to me a completely tender yet passionate authority, dominating my body completely, though with that special gentleness I'd always known him capable of, if only he truly felt it. I could feel with each thrust, with each heavy sigh, that he'd been waiting for this night longer than I could imagine, and would not finish until he was completely and utterly satiated. The very thought thrilled me, and I'd accepted him within me further. It was such a rare paradox to me that he could be so passionate and delightfully selfish in our union, yet at the same time, so loving, and so considerate.

After we'd finished, I lay in his arms as he gently stroked my back. I gazed up into his eyes, and found a small, triumphant smile slowly crossing his lips. What is it, I'd asked him, a light humor in my tone, but he did not reply. I cupped his sunken cheek, and he pressed a soft kiss to my palm as crystalline tears slid down to where my hand rested. I'd pressed a kiss to his lips, and asked him to please not cry, for I was with him, and I would never leave again. He drew me close to him, my body molding to his, buried his face in my neck, and wept, thanking me countless times.

We dressed again and I took a seat in the chair beside his bed, holding his hand in my lap and gazing adoringly down into his eyes which glowed golden in the dim light. Words failed me, and for once, they failed him as well. For hours it seemed we stared into each other's eyes, wallowing in our exquisite and unmistakable love.

After some time, he must have felt the darkness closing in upon him, for he asked me in a faint voice to come closer to him. I obeyed, and he pressed a kiss upon my forehead, followed by one upon my lips, before whispering final tasks which he wished for me to take care of for him. I agreed, suppressing my tears as best I could. He bade me a fond farewell, and told me never to forget what we'd shared, and that we always would, as long as eternity would last.

His final request is that I should kiss his lips once he had passed. As I felt his hand go limp in mine, I carried out his final order, and at the same time, sealed our love and the happiness of my maestro, my Angel, my mentor, my protector, and my love. Before turning away from him for the final time, I told him to wait for me, for I would be coming home to him someday.

Now that day is upon me, I am fairly sure, the day where I will leave behind this harsh world and join Erik in the land which he'd tried his hardest to create on Earth, a land where no one is denied happiness, a land where lovers are never torn apart, a land which is open to anyone who has loved unselfishly.

The note he gave to me on the day of his death I read over many a time, and although it is stored in a small wooden chest just beside me on my bedside table, I cannot summon the strength to reach over and read it one last time. It does not matter so much, however, for I know that in it, the promises Erik made to me so many years ago are all about to be fulfilled —and of course, if there is more to it that I have forgotten, I can always simply ask the author. I can hear his song already.

_Fin_


End file.
